Getting There

It is time to leave poetry for a while and go back to more foundational stuff. The question at hand is how do the things I learned as a child affect me now, as well as how I learned those things?

Until I was about six years old we lived on the second floor in the left facing apartment at 4102 Eastern Avenue in Cincinnati. It was from here that we ventured to the library, Vern’s grocery, Doc Clauder’s drug store, Johnny’s barber shop, the “five and dime,” Mr. Mosey’s variety shop, Walt’s Deli, and other neighborhood establishments.

Doc Clauder’s Drug Store and Johnny’s barbershop were dad’s bailiwick. Mom pretty much covered the rest of the territory most of the time, although visits to friends and neighbors could include either or both.

I loved Doc Clauder’s drug store. Doc was in his 60's, a big man with dark rimmed glasses, a mustache, and a ready
smile for a kid. His son(s) worked there, too. 

The minute you opened the door the smell greeted you—a mix of medicines and cigars—followed by a quiet rumble of conversation from the back room—much to my disappointment a grown-ups only place forbidden to little boys. But Doc (Mr. Clouder, to me) would mollify me with a piece of candy and a walk to the comic book rack where I would read anything I could reach. Dad usually went into the back room to say hello, but never stayed long. When we left, Doc was usually ready with another piece of candy or an empty cigar box with a cool picture of a sailing ship, or Indian or fancy crown.

 Doc Clauder's. Notice the sucker in my left hand: a gift from Doc.

Johnny’s was also a great place for little boys. Johnny would greet you like a long lost friend, and if you asked, let hold the civil war era pistol (unloaded and I expect unworkable) that he kept in a drawer. The place always seemed packed with as many loafers as customers, but they all knew dad and treated me like a king. Then they would argue about sports or politics while Johnny clipped away. I don’t know how most kids felt about haircuts, but for me they were a great time.

There were two other establishments that were dad’s alone. Stumph’s Tavern and Lindy’s Stag Bar. Dad was a socializer, card player, gambler, and liked spicy foods and cold beer. Lindy's had all that and more. Everyone knew him and he knew everyone. No one used his given name, Howard; he was always Mac. Calling him Howard identified you as a stranger.

I was allowed to accompany him to Lindy’s fairly often, but only once to Stumph’s. It was considered (I think, in retrospect) a rougher bar. It was adjacent to the Ford tractor plant and could get pretty crowded.

At Lindy’s the clientele were established. There was the obligatory stuffed Marlin on the wall behind the bar as well as the equally obligatory circa early 1900’s bare breasted pin-up; and the brass spittoons on the floor.

I was usually treated royally. When I was small, if dad sat at the bar, I sat on it. If dad sat in one of the booths I sat next to him. On the rare occasions that he played poker I sat quietly off to the side of the table.

I was fascinated by the card play. The flash of colors, the speed of the dealer sending cards flying across the table, the grunts, terse “check” and “raise” or “call” coming from the players, and of course, the clack of the chips. There was also the occasional slap of the cards on the table when someone triumphantly displayed a winning hand or the loser slammed down the cards that betrayed 
him.

 

Lindy's as it looks today. The sign said East End Cafe, but everyone knew it as Lindy's

Sooner or later I would get bored and dad would walk me home, my hand in his and my belly full of coke and pickled eggs or sausages. 

Half-a-dozen years after he died I spent a summer working at Coney Island, revisiting the old haunts. Everywhere I went I was “Mac’s Boy,” and it was a real struggle to be able to pay for my own beer. He was my hero, and to the best I can remember, I have tried to be as good a man as he. I’ve failed, I know, but dammit I’ve tried.

I still miss dad and it has been more than 50 years since he died. I expect I always will.

Time for a break here, and in the next post I’ll write about why I have given all this background. There is a destination, I promise; it just takes a bit of time to get there.